


Like a Book

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner gets a glimpse into Mulder's heart and fears.





	Like a Book

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Like a Book By Gray Shadows

Like a Book  
By Gray Shadows  
Rating: NC-17 (Adult content/Violence)  
Keywords: SLASH M/SK  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Archive/X Any others please ask.  
Feedback: All constructive criticism is welcome at   
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Skinner belong to Chris Carter and 1013. No copyright infringement is intended.  
Summary: Skinner gets a glimpse into Mulder's heart and fears.  
Thanks: The tale of how this story came to be written would be longer than the story itself. Big thanks to Karen Nichols, Pat Stoneburner and Laurie for reading the original and honesty in their critique. For Mrs Fish who gave me technical advice. And last but not least to m. butterfly for making this story infinitely more readable. The rules of commas and colons, and hyphens continue to elude me. Thank you for all your encouragement.  
To Griff and the folks at #TheAD'sOffice for understanding, friendship and lots of patience. I love you guys!  
WARNING!! If you're looking for sex, you'll not find it here. You will find two men who love each other, though. If that's not your cup of tea, please delete.

* * *

Friday, July 25, 1999  
Crystal City, Virginia

Turning off the car, Mulder rested his head against the steering wheel with his eyes closed. The events of the last five days were too close. Images of dead women and grieving families burned into his brain.

Five days to find a killer that had been murdering women for three months. The last one had been the niece of a U.S. Senator who had clout. Senator Jackson had done some investigating of his own. Somehow he discovered Mulder's reputation, both in and out of the Violent Crimes Unit. A few phone calls and Mulder had been sitting before Skinner early Monday morning. 

Skinner had done some investigating too. Knowing how profiling affected his brilliant but difficult subordinate, the A.D. needed to determine if there was some special circumstances that predicated the request. He knew there would be. As good as Mulder was, his reputation as an eccentric, his aloofness along with his disregard for the rule book, didn't make him a first choice. Skinner had talked with Norlin and read over the file before agreeing. The political clout of the last victim's family made this a high-profile case. Not that he was happy about it. The deep lines etched into his forehead were a sign with which Mulder was very familiar, indicating worry and concern.

Thoughts of Skinner reminded Mulder of his location. He dragged himself out of the car. A quick look confirmed his suspicions: Skinner wasn't home yet. He'd missed him in the last week. Working out of Quantico, he'd been closer to his own apartment in Alexandria. As many hours as he had spent on this case, he should have just set up a cot in VCU.

His feet made the familiar trek from the garage to the elevator, echoing in the large and mostly empty structure. Six p.m. on Friday and half the residents were working late to get that edge in their careers. The other half were probably enjoying happy hour. The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Mulder leaned against the back, as the doors closed and the vibration reported its movement upwards.

Monday, July 21, 1999  
Quantico, Virginia

That first day with VCU had been as awkward as he'd anticipated. A six-man team, ASAC Norlin, and Mulder. Norlin had been better than expected, considering he'd had Mulder shoved down his throat, from someone outside the bureau, no less. The other six were all familiar with Spooky Mulder and his "Xtracurricular activities." Mulder grew tired fast of the Xtra adjectives in the agents' Xpanded vocabulary. God, they even had him doing it after a while.

Twelve hours of listening to the agents discuss all the dead ends of the investigation, looking over forensics, pictures of the sites and the victims, and trying to catch up with two and a half months of lack of progress took its toll. As usual, he had become so involved in the file, he had subsisted on coffee and a few stale donuts. The other agents were in and out, following up on leads. When they were in the office, Mulder dealt with old jokes, alien humor and an underlying hostility that permeated it all.

Exhausted from the day, he'd finally arrived at his apartment some time after midnight. Patiently waiting was the slow blinking light of his answering machine. Less patient was the voice of his lover, telling him to call, no matter the time.

After donning some sweats and an old t-shirt he'd called.

"Skinner."

"Really, Walter, you'd think you were at work."

"Did you just get home? Or did you wait until the middle of the night just to annoy me?"

Mulder smiled. Neither answer would make the man happy. So he ignored both. "What are you wearing?"

A sound, suspiciously reminiscent of a sigh, came back over the phone. "I'm in bed. Use your imagination."

Mulder's smile broadened. "I don't have to use my imagination, I've seen you in bed." He relaxed further into the couch. "I wish I was there with you."

"You could have come over here, instead of going to your apartment. My bed is much more comfortable than your couch."

"Yeah, but if I had gone there, I wouldn't have gotten any sleep at all. I have to be back at Quantico at eight."

"How are your old stomping grounds?"

"Not bad. Norlin's a big improvement over Patterson."

Skinner snorted. "Tell me something I don't know. The man had an ego the size of an elephant."

Wincing, Mulder retorted with some anger, "*Has*, Walter. Patterson *has* the ego of an elephant. He's still alive."

His outburst was greeted by silence on the other end of the line. Closing his eyes and pushing his head down to the arm of the couch, he quietly apologized. "Sorry about that. I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"No problem, Mulder. I guess I didn't realize this was still a sore spot for you."

"It's not," he denied without thought.

"Yeah right, Mulder. Tell me another one."

Closing his eyes, Mulder thought he was too tired for this. His verbal skills, which he had honed to keep inquiry at bay, didn't work with Walter. The man just couldn't be distracted. Well, Mulder smiled, not over the phone. "I'm too tired to have this conversation tonight."

There was a pause and Mulder briefly thought of congratulating himself.

"How's Patterson doing? Any improvement?" 

Mulder froze. How the hell had Skinner known? He hadn't told anyone he checked up on Patterson, not even Scully. Shifting his long frame on the couch, he considered lying. No, he couldn't now. He had waited too long to respond. Skinner would know he was lying.

Schooling his voice, to keep out all emotion, he told the waiting man, "Not much change. He has his lucid moments but they're brief." In an attempt to keep things light, he added, "Of course, many people say the same of me."

"Are you worried you're going to become like him?"

"Too late," he thought. Instead he said, "No."

"Try and get some sleep tonight, Fox."

Ah. His first name. Reserved for times of passion or when the other man was worried about him. His mouth attempted a smile. "I'm fine, Walter. I'll talk to you later."

                   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Friday, July 25, 1999  
Crystal City, Virginia

The elevator settled at its predetermined destination with a slight bump leaving Mulder with the sense of gravity shifting and the feeling of lightheadedness. Fishing out his keys, he found the one Skinner had given him eight months earlier. He felt a smile stretch his face. They seemed more abundant when he was around his lover or, like now, remembering him.

The familiar sight of Skinner's condo which had become more his home than his own apartment, welcomed him. Hanging up his coat, he dropped into the soft couch, letting it support his weary frame. The lights he turned on burned his eyes. Closing them, he leaned his head against the back of the couch. His thoughts turned to the inevitable. Seven dead women.

                   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Watching the woman struggle, his knees on her hands, where he'd already inflicted the stab wounds. The pain causing her to breathe harder, not able to get air that was cut off by the bag around her head. The bag always clear so he could watch her face, struggling for breath...see the panic in her eyes as she realized she was going to die. As he watched, he jacked himself off...feeling the body struggle underneath him, unable to move, spasming with pain and lack of air. Then the moment as movement ceases, the body lax, preparing to die. Looking into the woman's eyes, waiting for the moment when death was stealing in, and he comes, defiling her in her last moment of life.

                   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Opening his eyes, the pounding in his head shook him from memory. He stretched over the couch, working the dimmer, to lower the lights. Dusk was moving toward night. Surrounded by darkness, he continued to lie there, sweat rolling down his face and back. Fatigue begged him to close his eyes, fear kept them open. Try as he might to turn his thoughts away from the case, they inevitably followed their own path.

Two and a half months of investigation and no links between the women had been found. One going to college, after she left her abusive husband, all the others professional women in different fields. None belonged to the same club, professional organization, used the same cleaners. Every possible link had been checked. They had moved on to the husbands then. The abusive ex was still in Indiana. None of the husbands knew each other nor could any links be found amongst them.

Taunted by the evasiveness of the killer and the smirks and jokes of his fellow agents, Mulder had struggled to understand the killer's motives. Getting nowhere studying the file, he then focused on the sites of each murder. The bodies had been found at the site of attack. Forensics has found little to help in the identification. A few fibers, and the semen. As luck would have it, the killer was a non-secretor, preventing them from getting his blood type.

Mulder had moved on to re-question the husbands. Six men who had lost their wives, the mothers of their children. All trying to find some precarious balance that would let them get on with their lives. It had been at the last interview, the husband of the latest victim, the niece of Senator Jackson, when it hit the hardest. The grief was still so fresh. It was also when the pieces of the puzzle started fitting into place.

                   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thursday, July 24, 1999  
Foxhall Terrace, Maryland

Getting out of the car, Mulder took a moment to take a look at the latest victim's home. It was well kept. The exterior was in good shape. The grass, although a bit long, was clearly mowed in the recent past. The flowers and bushes spoke of a family who cared about their home. The curtains were drawn and no sounds came through the windows.

Mulder knocked and waited. The door opened to reveal a tall man. His blond hair was cut close to the head, yet still managed to look rumpled.

"Mr. Tannon?"

Weary eyes took in Mulder. "Yes."

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder." He deftly pulled his identification out to show the other man. "I'm sorry to disturb you but I was hoping to talk to you."

Without a glance at the offered ID, the other man stood back and opened the door further. Mulder stepped through, into a living room of a man who's life was falling apart. Dust had settled in a thin layer over the furniture, newspapers were strewn on the end tables and floor. A few toys were scattered around the room, attesting to children who weren't in sight.

Mark Tannon walked over to a lounger, moving his arm to offer the couch to Mulder. Both men sat. Mulder observed the other man dark circles under his eyes evidence of sleepless nights, grieving his loss. Mulder's own bruised eyes reflected a determination to save someone else this pain. Not that Tannon noticed, or cared. His glazed eyes stared off, searching perhaps for dreams he once had shared with his wife.

"Mr. Tannon, I apologize for intruding upon you. I just recently joined this investigation and..."

Tannon's head shifted to look at the agent. "You're the agent Sylvie's uncle requested. He said you have a good track record in these..." his voice faltered, "cases."

Noting the despair in that voice, Mulder felt his stomach lurch. He was too late to help this husband, now widower, or the other five he had interviewed today. He felt the seconds ticking by as time got closer to bringing the next victim. Victims, he reminded himself, as he looked at Mr. Tannon.

"Yes, the senator asked I join the investigation. I assure you, everyone is working hard to find the person who did this." No reaction from the other man. "I need to ask you about your wife."

Tannon flinched. "What do you want to know?"

"Was there anything out of the ordinary that she mentioned, or that you noticed? Any disgruntled clients, or suspicious phone calls?" Of course this had been asked before. But family members often remembered things after the initial interview.

"No, nothing. I've been thinking about this since the last agent asked me. Work was going well. Sylvie had just won a big case and had been offered a partnership." A brief expression of pride passed his face before melting back into grief. "She was so excited. She had worked hard to get where she was." His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Noise at the door stirred the grief-stricken man into action. Wiping his eyes, he sat up straighter in his chair. As two boys, one 9 and the other 7 stepped into the living room, Mark Tannon turned from mourning husband to loving father. A small almost smile was directed towards the boys.

The older of the two, carrying a bat and glove, started to speak, then noticed the stranger on the couch. The younger boy followed his gaze.

"Dan, Tom, this is Special Agent Mulder. He came to ask me some questions."

Mark frowned. Tom, however, was impressed. "Are you an FBI agent?"

"Yes, I am, Tom. Would you like to see my badge?" Mulder flipped out his identification.

Tom came over to look. Studying the badge, his eyes were big as saucers.

Gently, Mulder asked, "So, does the picture match my face?"

Being 7, Tom hadn't looked at the picture, but did so now. Then he looked up at Mulder's face, "Yep, it's you."

Giving Tom his best serious Special Agent look, "Always check the picture, Tom. Anyone can buy a badge."

Tommy took those words seriously, "Yes, sir."

Lightening his look, Mulder turned towards Dan. "You play on a league?"

He had judged that Dan would not be as easily won over. As the older of the two, he wore his big brother protector role heavily. Mulder wondered if his seriousness was the effect of losing his mother. His innocence another victim of the killer.

"Yes, sir." Polite. The boys had clearly been taught to respect authority. "I play on the city league, Tomahawk team."

"What position do you play?"

"Center." Pride suffused his voice.

"You must be good. That's a critical position."

Dan relaxed fractionally. "I work real hard."

Mulder nodded his head, as if he expected nothing less.

"Boys." Both children turned to their father. "Why don't you get cleaned up? Agent Mulder and I need to talk a bit more. Then we'll have dinner."

Both boys moved towards the hallway. Loud noises on the steps announced their ascent.

Mark Tannon turned back to Mulder. "What other questions do you have?" There was more purpose in the man's voice now, the footfalls on the stairs reminding him of the family remaining with him.

Mulder's thoughts were also on the sounds coming from the two boys. All of the women had been mothers. Why hadn't they investigated that?

"I imagine, with busy careers, it was difficult for you and your wife to get to games."

Tannon's face lapsed briefly into grief. "It was Sylvie's one regret with this last case. She missed more games than she would have liked. But she was a good mother and Dan understood why his mom couldn't always be there."

Not wanting to draw out Mr. Tannon's pain further, Mulder quickly brought the interview to an end. With a new avenue to explore he left with a renewed determination and a sense of urgency. 

The evening was spent in a frenzy of phone calls and then the inevitable wait for faxes and e-mails of lists of the information he'd requested. Grateful that his initial profile had suggested a link with the university, most likely a professor or other academic, he pored over lists of the university faculty and the athletic league staff and volunteers and players. 

By dawn Mulder had found his link. All the children had been on a city baseball league. Although not on the same teams, all the teams had played each other at one time or another. Further investigation found that one of the assistant coaches also worked as a professor of natural sciences at the local university, which just happened to be the site of the first murder.

Friday, July 25, 1999  
Quantico, Virginia

The agents were assembled by 11:00 a.m. Fueled by adrenaline and caffeine, Mulder presented his evidence. The initial resistance to his conclusions was expected but angered him just the same. His nerves were strung tightly as the deadline for another murder loomed. Pulling together the remaining shreds of his patience, he explained in excruciating detail the logical sequence of links that brought him to this conclusion. Internally he cursed the hostility and disdain that prevented them from listening with an open mind.

In the end, it was Norlin who had supported Mulder. By 1:30 p.m. Professor John Timmons, aged 35, was brought in for questioning. On his person was found a knife that matched the description of the one used to stab the women's hands. On the basis of that and his link to all the families through the city baseball league, a search warrant was granted for the professor's home and office. While the other agents conducted the search, Mulder was interviewing the suspect.

Timmons was a tall man, 6 feet, 2 inches, and weighed approximately 180 pounds. However, it wasn't his build that allowed him to complete these murders, but his intelligent and kind-looking face. The coach he worked with in the baseball league couldn't say enough about John's dedication and support in coaching the eight to ten year olds. He seemed to have a real connection with the children and always gave one hundred percent during practices. With some further questioning, the coach did admit that John had expressed dismay over a few of the children's mothers who missed games over the course of the season.

It wasn't difficult to extrapolate that Timmons had used his connection with the city league to approach each woman. Once he identified himself with a known organization, the women would have dropped their guards. What mother didn't want to talk about how well their son or daughter was doing in baseball?

Armed with that information, it hadn't taken Mulder long to gain the suspect's trust. Using a story of his own childhood days, he talked about how he loved baseball. The excitement of being out in right field, waiting for the long ball to reach out to him. Calling out to his teammates, encouraging them to go all the way home. Waiting on deck for his turn at bat, and looking out into the bleachers for that one face that wasn't there.

No, it hadn't taken long at all for John Timmons to vent his anger at the women who had missed their children's games. To talk about the importance of each child having someone there to call out their support, their name. And from there to talk about his own mother's absence from all the important functions of his life. A mother who was a professor and a consultant, too busy to attend her only child's games.

By 4:30 p.m. Professor Timmons had confessed and was being booked on seven counts of murder. The agents searching his home had called in by then. A blood-splattered baseball jacket along with other clothing had been collected.

By 5:00 p.m., Mulder was on his way home. Navigating on auto-pilot, the ringing of his cell phone brought him back to his surroundings.

"Mulder."

"I hear congratulations are in order." Skinner.

"How did you hear so fast?"

"ASAC Norlin called me. He was very impressed with your work. He said you were the one to find the connection to the killer."

"It took long enough. We were too close on this one. Another few hours and we might have had another victim."

"But we don't. And that's because of the work you did. Where are you, Mulder?"

"I'm on I-95."

"Why don't you come over to my place tonight? I haven't seen you all week. I shouldn't be too late."

"I'm not going to be much company. I haven't slept for 48 hours; I'm exhausted."

Walter snorted. "Mulder, who do you think you're talking to? If I know you, you haven't gotten more than 10 hours sleep the whole week. Come anyway. I want to see you."

Mulder attempted a smile. "It's your Friday, Walter. If you want to watch me sleep, who am I to deprive you? I'll see you soon." 

                   ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Opening his eyes, Mulder saw night creeping upon him. Light from the lampposts outside cast shadows in the dimly lit condo. The room's atmosphere much too close to his own internal landscape, he headed for the stairs and a long, hot shower. Maybe he could wash the images away. 

Grabbing some sweats and a t-shirt from his drawer in the bedroom, Mulder made his way to the bathroom. The tile was cool on his feet. Turning on the shower and disrobing, he stepped under the steamy spray. Hands against the tile, feet slightly apart, head down, he stood under the shower head, letting the water massage his body, cleanse him. He needed this, the pounding of the water, focusing on the feel of the water needles on his body, replacing the images of dead women and motherless children. Eyes closed, his mind followed the water sliding from his head, down his back, over his ass and legs. 

The hands on his back caused a quick twitch of his muscles before his mind registered their source. Sliding up his back, the hands stopped at his shoulders, kneading the tightness there. A moan slipped from his lips. The thumbs slid up, caressing his neck. His head dipped lower in an unspoken plea. The thumbs made circular motions against the vertebrae, digging in to relieve the tension.

The strong hands slid back to his shoulders, dipping into muscles that Mulder thought would be hard forever. The water and the hands worked together, smoothing and relaxing until he began to melt under their attention. Thumbs began caressing his spine, moving slowly down his back. Mulder hissed when one reached a sensitive area, and both hands converged to gently work out the knot. As the soreness lessened, he leaned back, pushing harder into those magic fingers.

As the hands continued their journey down his back, he felt another sensation. He lifted his head slightly, concentrating, trying to find its source. There, again. A gentle touch of lips against his right shoulder blade, so soft that at first the sensation hadn't registered. There again, another brush of lips on his neck. There was no pattern to these kisses, no way to predict where they would alight next. The randomness of the kisses with the steady kneading of the hands assaulted Mulder's senses. He didn't know what to focus on so he focused on nothing, allowing the feel of lips and hands and water wash over him, until he didn't know where he was.

When awareness returned, he was cradled against a hard chest. Two arms around his waist held him firmly. Lips nipped the back of his neck, causing little shudders throughout his body. As the lips met his ear, a low voice whispered, "Let's go to bed."

Not sure his own voice would work, Mulder nodded.

Both men dried off and slipped naked into bed. Skinner lay curled behind Mulder, one arm draped around Mulder's waist. Their legs intertwined in a familiar embrace.

As tired as Mulder was, his mind drifted back to the case. Analyzing what he had done, if he could have found the connection sooner. It was the hand brushing up and down his arm that brought him back to the bed, where he lay with his lover.

"Tell me what's going on in that mind of yours, Mulder."

"Just going over the case again."

Skinner tightened his hold minutely. "You did your job, caught the killer. Why is it so hard to let it go? It's as if you take these cases personally."

"It is personal." He hesitated, trying to get his sluggish mind to come up with a way to explain. "Have you ever read a letter that wasn't meant for you? Maybe it was a love letter, or a Dear John letter. But you read it anyway, and it felt like it was written for you. You reacted to it, because it felt real. Or maybe, you read a passage in a book. The writer is describing his life, trying to make someone understand. And you read it, and it feels like you know him, like the writer was speaking directly to you or about you." Mulder hesitated. He felt Walter's nod. 

He continued. "Well, that's what it's like when I profile. Maybe the killer isn't trying to send me a message. Maybe he's just trying to write his own story. But when I'm at the crime scene, I read all the details and see what that writer is trying to tell me, about himself, about his world, his fantasies. So even though he might not have meant it, he has written his story for me. And like any well-written story, I become part of it, it becomes a part of me. And until that story ends, until we catch the killer, it is personal." Mulder's voice was soft, fatigue weighing the words. 

Skinner shifted. Not everyone who worked crime scenes felt this way. He hadn't. He'd been to hundreds of them and felt sickened and saddened, but never like this. Holding on to Mulder, he wondered how this brilliant but sensitive man had survived as long as he did in VCU. For a brief moment, he was afraid of him, afraid of this Spooky presence in his arms. A man who would read a crime scene the way most people read a book. He was ashamed of this reaction. This was Mulder. He wasn't some weird specter, he was flesh and blood. His talent had a price. Most of his colleagues in VCU had treated him like a pariah. Did they see the price Mulder paid for his abilities? Did they even try?

Skinner hesitated before speaking. "What we read doesn't make up who we are. Just because you're good at profiling, it doesn't make you a monster." He dropped a kiss on Mulder's head. The body against his tensed and then relaxed. 

In one sentence, Skinner had gone to the core of his fear. A fear that by opening himself up to the killer, he was opening himself up to becoming that which he sought. A fear of ending up like Patterson, caught in the abyss of the mind. Mulder leaned into his lover, bringing his unembraced arm up and over Skinner's. This was who he was. This man who held him and loved him, who had given Mulder a home and affection. Skinner had become such an essential part of who he was, and more importantly, who he wanted to become. "I love you."

"Sleep." 

As Mulder drifted closer to unconsciousness, Walter's words followed him down. 

"I love you too."

Like A Book  
The End


End file.
